


Demon

by Gimmik



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons, Fantasy, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-09 08:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gimmik/pseuds/Gimmik





	1. Prologue

_Demons are cruel, terrifying, and merciless creatures. But you... my Darkterror. You will be worse._

* * *

The fog hung over the narrow streets of the slums of Wardensar, the morning sun battled its way through the wall of cloud, tinting the streets yellow. The sounds of people beginning their daily routines filled the narrow maze of houses and shops as the beaten engines of life started up for another day of braving the frosty morning air. Before long, the streets were filled with men and women, both young and old, heading out to do their various labours to provide for their families; some heading out to work, some perusing the markets for vegetables that could be considered fresh or bread that was only slightly mouldy, protected from the cold by their patchwork rags and cloaks. Little did they know that today was a peculiar day, as a peculiar man, doing peculiar things, was going to experience something very, very peculiar. Only time would tell for when these peculiar things would begin to happen.

And no one knew anything about it.

To many, the morning was a time of tedium and dreariness until it was time for lunch, but for one man, it was time to exercise his expertise and earn as much money he could lay his stubby little hands on. This one man was dressed like many others, with a raggedy patchwork jacket and worn, discoloured clothes. It was the perfect illusion. He waddled along the streets of a different area of Wardensar, his piggy eyes darting from side to side, searching for a target. In this area of the city, he was far more likely to find a prize worthy of his skills. He roamed streets where shops were glorious and people were dressed to match, sniffing out the sweet scent of wealth. Money, gold, silver, jewels. Anything would do, as long as it was _his_. He weaved through the crowds of people, pinching wallets and snatching trinkets as he went. It was all so _easy._ He continued on this escapade until his pockets had been filled with various knick-knacks and trinkets. Finally, he took a sharp turn into a dimly lit alley and revelled in his success. Today had been a busy one, he hadn’t even stopped for his lunch! He plopped down on a stray bucket and began to examine his collection, eventually having to hold his items up to the warm glow of a street light to see them better as the sun slowly descended below the great wall that bordered the city. Winter days were far too short for his liking. Finally, he came across the final item from his day of hard work, a flawless diamond ring.

Yes, today had been _very _successful_._ He admired the way the crystal glistened in the pathetic glow of the nearby lantern that was now on its last few breaths, savouring the magical colours that danced around inside it. He gazed upon the gem that sat atop the golden ring for a few more minutes until he noticed something strange on one of its surfaces. There appeared to be a _man_ standing inside it. In a jolt of fright, the pickpocket flung his arms up into the air, sending his precious jewel high into the sky. No! He couldn’t lose _his_ jewel! His tiny sausage arms shot up at the chilled space between them, frantically grabbing for the flying ring, when suddenly a long, slender arm reached out over his head and snatched it from the air. Astonished, amazed, and alarmed, the pickpocket stared blankly at the looming figure in front of him, watching as he examined the priceless ring in his fingerless gloved hands with eyes that had fallen into the black shadow that was his face. Both men were frozen in time, one from fear and the other from curiosity, the only movement being the remains of the once bustling crowds at the distant end of the alley and the tall man’s red scarf that was gently dancing in the wind.

Before long, the pickpocket came to his senses and realised just what was going on; he was being _mugged_, “You give that back, y’here!” The aggressiveness in his voice trembled slightly as the tall man’s gaze shifted from the ring towards the pickpocket, locking him in place. Slowly, he placed the ring deep within one of the pockets that resided on his large coat and simply tipped his worn hat towards the pickpocket as he turned and began walking off towards the darkness of one of Wardensar’s many winding alleys.

This was a peculiar thing, and it made the pickpocket furious, “Oi! Get back here! Thief! THIEF” he screamed, and to his astonishment, his rather pathetic cries caused the tall man to stop dead in his tracks. Slowly, the pickpocket’s face changed from one of astonishment to a silly grin as he figured out what was going on. As he looked past the tall man who had stolen from him, he bore witness to two equally tall figures, dressed entirely in white combat gear with metal face plates that showed no emotion nor humanity. In this moment, the pig happily watched as the fox was spotted by the farmers. And the farmers that policed this farm were remorseless and unforgiving. They were called White Watchers. The pickpocket felt as if he had won the lottery, but he was in for yet another shock as the thief that stood before him simply bent down and began to tie his shoelaces. The sheer amount of nerve that this man displayed was unprecedented. It was inconceivable. No one dared make such a mockery of the law enforcement, let alone so brazenly in the face of certain death. Not that the pickpocket cared too much, this man’s corpse would be hung in the city centre by the time the morning came and there was nothing that could change that. In essence, he had _won_.

An eternity passed before the man finally stood back up; the White Watchers now a mere fifty paces away from him. He stood there and looked into the alleyway to his right and beneath the scarf that was still gently dancing in the wind an invisible smile cracked on his lips. The four men just stood there as the pickpocket’s temper was slowly rising. This ordeal was taking forever, _his_ time was being wasted. Then suddenly, as if he had been shocked by a live wire, the man darted into the alleyway at full pelt, a mere blur in the vision of the pickpocket. The White Watchers, having not hesitated in the slightest, began their hunt.

It was night by the time the pickpocket reached his home; it had taken a lot longer than expected and he had almost missed the curfew. Once his numb fingers had fished his keys from his strained pockets, he was welcomed by the safety of his rather unremarkable flat and immediately set about putting the kettle on. Winter nights were harsh in the north, not that he had anything else to compare them to, but he still felt that he deserved a nice, hot mug of tea after his rather fruitful escapade, even after that damned thief stole his precious diamond ring. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he made his way to the bedroom so that he could finally examine what his hard work had brought him. As he entered the dark room, he was greeted by a wall of freezing cold air, the source of which was a lone open window. This puzzled him. He did not remember leaving it open. After a full minute of thinking, he decided to let sleeping dogs lie and just close it. As he fastened the lock down tight, he gazed down at the run-down streets that were the edge of the Tennant’s Ward; Wardensar’s primary housing area. With a small sigh, he left the window in favour of attending to his screeching kettle. Or, he would have, but there was something blocking his way. It was a very tall something, and, from what he could tell, it was not very happy with him. A tall, dark figure loomed over him, smothering him in shadow. It was in that moment when the pickpocket realised just who the figure was, but _how?_ He should be _dead_. More than dead, he should be hanging, drawn and quartered and put on display by now. But here he was, with nothing more than a red smile carved into his left cheek, its drool seeping into his scarf.

“You’ve wronged me, petty thief,” his voice was little more than a whisper. The pickpocket met the man’s penetrating gaze; freezing him in place and causing him to break into a cold sweat. The man’s eyes were cold, like the depths of an icy lake. Bottomless… and terrifying. The man’s gaze shifted across the pickpocket’s body, settling on his pockets, “give me your coat.” The order was clean and simple, yet the severity did not register in the pickpocket’s tiny mind. Besides, he wasn’t just going to give up _his_ precious valuables.

“No! It’s _mine_,” the pickpocket spat, “Go steal from somebody else, ya lousy tramp!” No matter how pathetic his insults seemed to be, the pickpocket’s words seemed to have struck a chord as the man swooped down and grabbed the pickpocket by his collar, pinning him to the wall. The pickpocket was held there, his feet dangling uselessly above the ground, which, as he looked down, seemed to be miles away. The man glared into him before moving in to his right ear. The scent of fresh blood working its way into the pickpocket’s nose, causing his heart to beat even faster than it already was.

“That was not a question,” the man breathed into his ear, holding the pickpocket there until he received a small whimper in response. Finally satisfied, the man loosened his grip on the jacket ever so slightly, causing the pickpocket to fall to the floor with a loud thump while retaining his grasp on the coat itself. The pickpocket watched in bewilderment as all of his precious belongings were taken away from him as the man gracefully undid the lock on the window and climbed out of it. As the clock struck twelve, he dropped from his perch and vanished into the night. Shocked and shaken, the pickpocket just sat there on the floor, leaning against the lone bed with nothing but the screech of the kettle to comfort him.

And that was just the beginning of a large manner of peculiar happenings that were to unfold in the future, but the pickpocket knew not of such events. All he knew at this time was the bitter taste of defeat and stewed tea, but then again, that was all men with small minds tasted. And they always drank every single drop.


	2. In The Shadow of a City So Great

Preying on the tiny minds of the common fool was a profitable decision to make and an easy plan to execute. All you need to do as watch them do the work for you and swoop in when they least expect it to reap the rewards. Of course, the morals behind such acts are questionable, but then again, if you don’t exist to the world, you can do whatever you want. Whether it be running a shady apothecary or stealing for a living, the options are limitless. The man was a thief anyway, Abaddon told himself as he held the patchwork coat in his hands, feeling the rough material against his fingertips. The cold winter breeze pierced through the wool of his jumper and danced on his pale skin. It was cold. He didn’t like that.

At this time of night there was no light in the streets. Not a soul in sight, not even a whisper of life to sing against the whistling melody of the night breeze. To an ordinary person it would be impossible to navigate the winding streets, but Abaddon was more of the peculiar sort. He roamed these streets as if his vision pierced through the veil of darkness, like a cat out for a stroll. Deftly, he clung to the shadows and moved silently past the patrols of White Watchers. He was invisible; a shadow in his own right. To an ordinary person he would seem to know exactly where the patrolmen would be at exactly the right time. Either that or he was extraordinarily lucky, like some deity was guiding him.

Abaddon didn’t care what the truth was, but he wasn’t fond of some powerful creature controlling him.

There was only one real challenge that prevented him from getting to where he wanted to go. That challenge was a very large wall. Eventually, he came to the same spot he always did, and sat in the same position he always took next to Wardensar’s border wall. Right on cue, a patrol of two White Watchers emerged from the void of one of the streets that Abaddon had been following along the rooftops and, in that moment, he was a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to make his move. He sat and watched as they turned towards the border wall and _vanished_. It was always the same. Every single day. Yet every time he watched it, it was like there was a ball that formed in his stomach that was made purely from every doubt he ever had. Carefully, he left his perch and, protected by the safety of his curtain of shadow, edged closer and closer to the border wall.

This process took an age, but Abaddon was not one to take chances. It was times like these when silence was maddening. He longed to hear the footsteps of those who might kill him as he crouched in the darkness, frozen by apprehension. His lungs began to burn with the weight of the breath he was holding as he waited for the next patrol to step through the illusion of the wall. This always happened, and they always did. As if it were orchestrated, and Abaddon’s thoughts were the conductor, the same duo of emotionless soldiers, dressed entirely in white, stepped through the illusion and carried on their patrol. Once they were out of sight, Abaddon slipped through himself and was welcomed with a sudden warmth, followed by the bite of cold air again as the familiar sight of a new area of a city, quite unlike the lavish architecture and majesty of the inner city. This slum was known as the Peasant’s Ward. And was also known as home.

This dance Abaddon did with the White Watchers happened every night. Every step, every jump, every feeling of dread was prewritten… and it was tiring.

Finally relaxing his tensed shoulders and letting his lungs recover from the onslaught of held breaths, Abaddon began the slow walk through the streets of his shanty town home, his gaze down at his scuffed shoes that were probably quite nice, once upon a time. Eventually, his dreary eyes rose to bear witness to the haunting sign of his destination, _Grimm’s Apothecary_. Quite an ominous name for a pharmacist’s, and the man who ran it was just as ominous as he was strange. Without hesitation he stepped inside, paying little mind to the creek of rusted hinges against the door’s rotting wood, and was welcomed by the stench of decaying plant matter and dead rodent. The small tinkle of a bell as he entered juxtaposed the grim interior so well it would have been funny if the inside wasn’t death incarnate.

In amongst the rot and decay, right at the back of the shop, was an old counter which had a grey mound slouched over it, noisily enjoying his slumber. Without warning, Abaddon walked up and dumped the pickpocket’s coat right next to his ear, causing the grey mass of tiredness that was named Obadiah Grimm to flick his head up in alarm. It took a few seconds before his consciousness returned to him fully as he habitually began fixing his cloak and torn top hat in a vain effort to look presentable. By the time he had finally realised who was looming over him, a manic grin had creeped onto his papery skin, clearly exposing the tender flesh beneath his cracked lips.

“’Ello there, loyal customer, what can I do for ya at this time of night?” he asked, one hand propping himself up against his desk while the other played with a silver strand of his long hair that hung in front of his eyes, shielding him from the horrors of his shop. Abaddon simply gestured to the bulging pockets of the coat, which was now beginning the slow descent from the desk on to the floor. “Ah, certainly sir, right this way.”

Grimm rose from his chair, stretching his arms out wide as he did so, causing a cacophony of clicking and cracking sounds to pierce the silence that clung to the must of the shop. He then dusted off his dark grey cloak, flipped the countertop up and disappeared into the door behind him, “If you would follow me, please.” Abaddon, who did not care for his theatrics at all, picked up the coat and followed him past the counter, through the door and down a long hallway, ignoring multiple doors until the two of them reached the end and began climbing a flight of stairs. Finally, they arrived at what you could hypothetically call a living room, but would more accurately be described as a table, two chairs, and what was probably once a fireplace.

Excitedly, Grimm ran up to one of the chairs and jumped high into the air, landing perfectly in it’s aged embrace as it wheezed out a large puff of dust. He sat facing Abaddon, his large grin beckoning him and his black fingernails tapping against the wood with rhythmic anticipation.

“So then, watcha got for me this time?” he giggled, “Oh, I do hope there are plenty of shinies!” the insane smile remained eternally stitched onto his pale face. Abaddon calmly walked up to him and carelessly dropped the coat onto the table, secretly pocketing a small trinket as he did so. The old man wouldn’t notice, he never did. As soon as the coat had left his possession, he immediately turned and began walking down the hallway to another set of stairs. “Aww, no time for a little chat with your old man?” He made no effort to keep the sarcastic mockery out of his voice, “Ah well, call me if you need anything, I’m always here. And Abaddon… actually try and sleep this time.”

The silence was deafening without the wind to conceal it. What was he to say? In the end the only thing he could muster was a simple “night.” How boring of him. How utterly drawl and _simple_. What’s wrong with you, you simple, arrogant, boring _fool? _Was it disappointment? Guilt? Did he want recognition? How egotistical. But realistically, how would he know what he wanted? After all, he was just a thief, it was laughable that he even considered himself worthy of such things. Bad people didn’t deserve to feel like that, and he certainly was bad. These thoughts ate at him as he climbed the second flight of stairs. This was Abaddon’s endless routine of action, result and consequence. Forever unchanging, forever crushing, forever tiring.

He was tired.

Abaddon’s bedroom was a simple room at the top of Grimm’s establishment. Once he entered, he fulfilled his routine and lit a single candle before removing his scarf and jacket. His face stung as he poked at the cut along his cheek and, judging by his reflection in the mirror, would heal quickly. Something that would take more time to vanish, however, were the dark circles under his eyes. For the first time in a while, Abaddon stood there and took in his own reflection, examining his angular features and sunken, cold, _dead_ eyes. _If a corpse could walk,_ he thought to himself. There are people in the world who take great pride in their reflection; needless to say that Abaddon was not one of these people.

Tired of the man in the mirror, he finally turned his attention to his new trinket. Fishing it from the depths of his jacket pocket and finally sitting on his bed in the corner of the room, he held it up to the candlelight and examined the way the light bounced off of its metal design, highlighting its obvious outline. A raven. A peculiar emblem, he thought. Unfortunately, that was all he thought that night, as his eyes grew heavy and his world turned to black just as the orange glow of the morning sun crested the border wall of Wardensar and the beaten engines of life started up once again.


End file.
